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Memories of my childhood dance through my head even now as an adult.  I cling to that feeling of utter innocence now, and it is something I strive to make a reality for my children every day.  My sister, Abby, and I grew up in the country.  Time seems to slow down in those wide open spaces.  Your senses come alive.  I can still smell that fresh air, sweetened by the scent of the fresh dewy ground and nearby wheat fields.  I can see my sister’s long blonde hair bounce against her back as she ran ahead of me.  I can still feel the slight scrape of the weeds brush against my legs. We were free.  Innocent, happy, and free.  Albert Einstien once said, “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairytales.”

My mom did just that.  Every single night before bed, we’d snuggle into her bed on either side of her and travel through wardrobes to Narnia.  We would shrink to tiny sizes like The Littles.  We would travel across the West in a covered wagon like Laura Ingalls Wilder.  Through my mother’s lilting voice, we became a part of those pages, those words.  Now, looking back as a mother myself, I know my mom was experiencing the magic too.  The gasps of surprise as Aslan rose from the dead, the giggles when The Littles were able to fit into impossible spaces, and the understanding at a young age that life was much harder when Laura Ingalls Wilder was a little girl.

It is my hope that my children live in that world of whimsy and imagination.  And, just as the memories of my childhood are still blowing around in the breezes of those wide open spaces, I pray that my children run those fields too, chasing the sunlight until I call them into the pages of fairytales.

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